


THERE'S SOMETHING INSIDE YOU; IT'S HARD TO EXPLAIN

by flammable_heart



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Supernatural (Stranger Things), Angst, Artists, Betrayal, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Daddy Issues, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Histories, Hurt Billy Hargrove, Inspired by Stranger Things (TV 2016), Loss of Virginity, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Protective Billy Hargrove, Smut, Soft Billy Hargrove, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, backstories, billy hargrove hates steve harrington
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28559919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_heart/pseuds/flammable_heart
Summary: Billy is a broken boy, all sharp edges and bloody knuckles. You are a quiet girl, too soft for your own good. You hate each other.(You don't hate each other.)He's so soft for her, has been since high school and after a slightly drunken night reveals some secrets neither one of them ever thought would see the light of day, they have to deal with what comes next.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Original Female Character(s), Billy Hargrove & You, Billy Hargrove/Original Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Original Female Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Reader, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington/Original Character(s), Billy Hargrove/You, Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. I Want You And Nothing Else Comes Close

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: smut (loss of virginity—female, fingering—female receiving, vaginal sex, oral sex—female & male receiving), mild violence, mentions of abuse
> 
> 18+ READERS ONLY
> 
> This is going to be a journey kids, so buckle up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High school parties are garbage and Baby hates them, except when she knows Billy will be there to carry her home. They have a secret between them—he shows her his soft side, and she never tells a soul. They hate each other, but once in a while, they don’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: fluff, angst, pining
> 
> 18+ READERS ONLY
> 
> So this first chapter is a little throw back to their days in high school, before we get into the present setting.

The only reason he even shows up to the party at Barb’s house, is because of Baby. His heart beats irregularly three times after he finishes a laughter fit prompted by the idea, though she spins in a short dress and he thinks it endearing. Why Steve shows up is beyond him, and he rolls his eyes at the sight of the two of them—friends, something more, he doesn’t know. He hates it regardless.

He avoids them—her—for most of night, but when he finally stumbles into the kitchen, she’s there and he wraps an arm around her waist to steady her. Thin fingers circling around his sinewy arm, Billy feels more on fire than when he’d gotten paired with Heather for Seven Minutes in Heaven. And she doesn't leave without a fight. He's not sure how much she's had to drink, though he ends up holding her shoes in two hands because she refuses to put them on her own feet, andhe shoves them in Steve’s hands before he picks her up in one swift motion.

He's not as drunk as he thought, and she is smaller than she looks.

She’d wanted to fight; she always wants to fight him, she hates him. Shoes? Not a fucking chance. And it doesn’t hits her until about half way home that he’s carrying her, bony little fingers twisted up in his shirt.

She hates him, she hates him. She doesn’t.

There's a gap in time where he leaves her, walks Steve home and returns back towards the girl’s house flustered, red cheeks and red nose, hands in pockets. He figures he should check in on the child who escaped his hold as soon as he set her down in the house; the door's left open and he knows that’s all her doing. “Baby?" The layout of their houses is nearly identical, he knows that for several reasons, just like he knows the slight smudges on the tile floor are footprint marks she left behind. He closes the door and follows them to the living room, again, identical, and she's stretched out on a couch they've discovered they both fit on. "Are you sleeping?” He whispers the question, though he knows her mother won’t be home until noon the next day—she works overnight every third Friday of the month.

It’s cold in the house all by herself. She knows he’ll be back, leaves the door open for him, crashing on the nearest piece of furniture, her knees hidden finally under the short fabric of her dress, pulled to her chest. What a fucking baby. And she looks tiny on that couch, because she is and because she manages to curl up into such a little ball when the opportunity calls. She hears his voice and doesn’t breathe out the laugh that catches in her throat, just throws an arm out in his direction, beckoning, too drunk to move. She’d never admit it, but this is her favorite part—legs thrown over his, sucking up whatever warmth is leftover. Big bad Billy Hargrove and little Baby Lynn.

Of course she's awake. If it was anyone else, he wouldn't have bothered to walk through the open door and make sure she was alright. But, it was Baby. _Baby, Baby, Baby Lynn,_ with her small smile and quaint throws of the fist; and she wants to fight him. But not this time. They both know what happens on nights like these.

He sits on the edge of the couch after she's thrown her arm out towards him, "You're taking up too much space.” But it's a lie. She's small enough to stay in her scrunched position and let him stretch out all without barely grazing, though that's part of the deal. Still, when he lays down on his back, ankles resting on one arm rest and neck on the opposite, he forces her to shift with his movement. He's sure she does it gladly, anyway.

It’s funny, because she doesn’t do this. It’s funnier because it’s him. She’ll never admit it, but she does shift gladly, eagerly; a little head resting on a shoulder that isn’t made to cry on, nails digging into the fabric covering his chest. No one ever sees them; his rep remains intact. But she knows. She sees him. “What, did you walk your boyfriend home? How sweet. I hope you gave him a goodnight kiss for me.” The strange tension between them doesn’t escape her except on nights like tonight, but it’s not her place. Actually it is, but it’s their issue, their huge ugly problem, so she doesn’t say anything. It wouldn’t do any good anyway, they’re both the most stubborn people she knows. Pretentious assholes. She giggles, thinks she funny, shifts closer and if he asks the answer is that she’s cold, but really it’s just that soft Billy is her weakness, and she wants to keep him as long as possible.

He feels it again. The warmth of the house warms him up, flushes the color back into his face and she wipes all of that away with a few tiny little words. He’d wanted to punch Steve in the face, wanted to tell the other boy that she was his, but there was no truth in that. He has no right to her, and while he’s loathed to admit it, Steve is better for her than he is. “We’re still working on the exact status of our relationship, you know," he lets his arm snake under her, brings her in closer to his chest, "I'll kiss him next time. Promise.” He can’t keep the giggle from his voice, because the thought is utterly laughable. And he thinks if she really wanted to, she'd be able to see right through him. If she really, really wanted to, she could call him out on his little games and fibs though at one point, he convinces himself she enjoys playing along.

She says she hates him: then, tugs her fingers into his shirt.

She laughs into the fabric of his shirt, leaves herself pressed there for a moment even though she’s already memorized the way he smells. And then she’s looking at him in the dim light, her smile barely visible, her chin resting on his chest. “You let me know and I’ll officiate the wedding.” Baby wonders not for the first time what it must feel like to kiss reckless boys like Billy. She hates that she wants to know; hates Heather more for knowing. Watching him a moment longer, she presses her cheek back to where she can hear his heart beating too fast. There’s a nod that rubs her hair along his arm. “I kissed two girls during spin the bottle.” It’s a matter of fact statement that holds no weight, not because they were girls, but because she didn’t feel anything. And feeling something, that’s important.

It's almost too easy to talk to her. Maybe it's just the residue alcohol and side effect of who knows how many half smoked joints he's nursed throughout the night, or maybe it's just the fact that he's feeling a little loose, so very tired and heated all at once. The reason doesn't hold much weight, he's far too gone to stop himself from letting out a small chuckle, a grin, getting comfortable on a stiff couch. Then there are the jokes. It's odd, has him feeling like he's left a stove top lit and can't figure out in which house. He's out of his element around her.

"Two whole girls?" he scrunches his nose and purses his lips, "you get around more than I do these days.” He imagines Baby in her soft blush dress, how the length cuts up and down when she moves and seamlessly disappears when she stretches. Something so supposedly innocent, it feels wrong to even think about it. _Oh but he does think about it_. He shifts, off his back and onto his side, turning her with him as he does so that her back is pressed to his chest, and her hair's in his face. “Sounds like you had an eventful night," he shrugs, letting his arm fall over her small, small body, taking her hand into his, using his thumb to stroke up and down her palm.

She wonders what the boys think of her, wonders how they see her in relation to themselves. Is she just a charity case? A child? Their little baby bird? Or is she something more, something they did not expect and still cannot quite figure out? It doesn’t matter really, not if she considers it this way—she will always be exactly who she is. But that’s not necessarily true, because they’ve changed her; they’ve seeped into her pores, she has their dirt under her nails.

  
She won’t tell the others about the way he laughs at the things she’s said. It’s their secret. The air huffed out of her nose is the only protest she makes to his statement because she’s too tired to fight with the prince of fucking every girl he meets. And he moves her easily, her little body fitting perfectly into the space his creates.

She does this to them—runs her fingertips down the center of their palms, pretends she doesn’t know what their futures hold. So when she feels his thumb graze the warm center of her hand she closes her eyes, wishes it was thundering outside so that she had an excuse to keep him like this.

  
And she thinks: all of the devils in Hell fell from Heaven.

But she can’t stand the softness of his touch, so she picks his hand up in both of her little ones, brushes her thumbs across the middle, lets her chin rest against her own chest like she can actually see that way. “Y’know your love line is crooked? That means it’s hard for you to trust people. That when you finally do they’re expected to love you unconditionally.” Her voice is so small and far away, it’s like she’s not even there.

There's Nancy Wheeler, soft to the touch and fun with her words. She's someone to throw hands around and press fingers against skin, but he's just about done with her as soon as he starts. There's Heather Holloway, who laughs at half-told jokes and plays with his hair while he protests. Then: there's Baby, in all her quiet glory, untouchable, carving a spot for herself in the crevasse of his heart—still unable to find the proper, steady beat after being thrown off track from their closeness.

He should have just gone to bed,

she couldn't have run her fingers down his palm then.

He folds his fingers in on her hands, "are you not aware that it's incredibly rude to read someone's palms," he huffs out, opening his hand again, "especially when you give them such shit ass fake readings.” There's not much to think about when she tosses what he'll claim are empty words at him. He’s never been in a relationship long enough to split pieces of himself for the other to hold, never cared enough to think about how little trust he has towards other people. They'll dig at his past, she'll dig at it, using dirty hands to pull out seeds from the soil and hold it up against him to question. He doesn't acknowledge what she says; she likes conversations he tends to stray from. And though he takes his hand out of her reach and clutches her shoulder with it, closing his eyes as he buries face into the nape of her neck, says, ”you should probably get to bed—” there’s no force behind the words.

There are times when she wants to punch him in the face, but Steve does enough of that, and he’s too pretty anyway. She has told him she hates him, has spit those hateful words on the heels of her hands pressed into his chest to push him away. She thinks it all the time—she hates him, she hates him. But, she doesn’t.

He is a piece of her, and she does not know how that came to be.

She shifts without his permission, lifts his chin with her forehead so she can settle down, her nose brushing his throat before she winds tiny fingers back into the fabric of his shirt. Like a cat she curls up, pressed against him, holding him there so that he cannot leave. Sometimes people need to hear things even when they don’t want to. She yawns, rubs her face against his chest, closes her eyes because he’s right, she should go to bed. “We do love you though.” Her voice is so soft, spoken into fabric and skin, drowsy, dreamy.

_The truth._

He's still sore in all the wrong places. His mouth, which he wiped clean long before he walked into the house, stings and his back's tense but he moves freely. Baby’s already undone all of his seams, and if she were to pick up on that, she'd pull the string out completely, and he'd tell her anything and everything she wanted to hear. He thinks he's still shaking, wants to kiss her and knows he can’t, and the only thing that stops making it obvious is his hold on her.

She moves and he loosens his grip, lets her take up as much or as little space as she wants, lets her trap him there. He isn't planning on going anywhere, anyways. There's a bitter taste in the back of his throat, "I know you do," it's simple, quiet, honest. He wants to tell her that he loves her too, but he won’t; he can’t.

She doesn’t want to make him talk, only wants to feel his erratic heartbeat against her cheek. It’s real. More real than anything that would come out of his mouth. And she can feel it, can always feel it—this tension in him, tearing him apart, humming just under the surface against the current of his blood. She feels it in Steve too, that questioning, the fight he pretends doesn’t exist. But she’s not going to scratch at that scabbed over wound. They love her because she knows when to be quiet, knows when to touch their hair, their cheeks, their hearts.

His fingers press into the small of her back and she moves her head just enough to kiss him softly on the chin. He’ll be gone in the morning; this boy who can accept her love, he doesn’t really exist. But she’ll hold on to him anyway, because it has always been her naive hope that someday, he will.


	2. Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby still hates Billy, really she does. Except for the nights that she lives for—the ones when he carries her home and holds her terribly softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: smut (fingering, oral—female receiving, vaginal sex, loss of virginity), angst
> 
> 18+ READERS ONLY
> 
> Let's get down to business, shall we...

**2 years later**

There are always parties and she usually finds an excuse to avoid them—paint in her hair and under her nails, nothing to wear but old ripped jeans and a worn, grease stained tee-shirt. But there were nights like these when she relented, when she lets Steve drag her to a house whose living room is the size of her whole apartment and then some. And there is still paint spattered on her skin, in the place where her jaw meets her neck, in the swirl of her fingerprints.

Baby always discards her shoes at the door, abandoned in the corner for someone to find before they leave for good, so as she wanders through the hallways her little feet slap the hardwood almost joyfully. “Billy!” She’s yelling, drunk already after only two drinks and shots that she’s lost count of. And she’s lost everyone else—hand slipped out of an inattentive palm in search of an angry boy who fits into this world when she decidedly does not. “Billy?” Baby stumbles and catches herself on the frame of the doorway into the kitchen, hopes to see a familiar face but instead another girl brushes past her with a smirk, and she tries to hold down the dismay she feels.

“Billy—“ Her voice is quieter now, as he pulls herself up onto the counter to sit, her legs swinging childishly, a little grin still on her face as she looks down at her feet and the floor for a moment.

He had been flirting with Nancy most of the night, fingertips tugging at the hem of a too short dress, leaning in too close for proprieties sake as he spoke to her. Billy was certain—more than certain—that he was close to getting her upstairs. Then Baby's voice cuts through the hushed exchange. Nancy smirks, something closer to a sneer as she repeats the nickname in a mocking tone, almost as a question, but he’s already pulling away.

He wants to be mad, if it had been anyone else the anger would have already spiked his veins like a poison or a drug, but it wasn't anyone else. It was _Baby_. He sighs through his nose as he picks up the beer he had left on the counter, leaning back as he looks at her, so out of place but that is what he loves most about her. She wasn't part of this world, wasn't cut from the same cloth, and it was like a breath of fresh air. "You found me. What do you want?"

Someone had insisted she wear this little black dress to the party, and while she felt out of place in it, everyone else couldn’t take their eyes off of her. She was such a small thing—little waif, tiny fingers digging into skin, searching out secrets that no one else could find. She’d already been giving palm readings to some of the girls at the party; it was a fun game, a party trick that turned into a point of contention any time she tried it with the boys. When he finally finds her, his tone sounds trite, but she knows, even in the midst of an alcohol induced haze, that he doesn’t really mean it. He is the biggest mystery of them all for her—bruised knuckles, drugs in his veins and hands so soft for her that he could be someone else.

“Steve left me!” She says it cheerfully, because she isn’t necessarily mad that everyone else at the party has found something else to do. She remembers high school parties, when Billy would carry her home, would cuddle up next to her on the couch and brush his fingers through her hair before she fell asleep. If the others knew he’d never tried to push her, if they knew the two of them had fallen asleep with foreheads pressed together, they’d laugh. That wasn’t the Billy they knew. “Also, I’m drunk.” It’s a matter of fact statement, and Baby reaches over, curling her fingers into the boy’s shirt to draw him closer because he seems so far, leaning on the counter next to her.

He always felt protective of Baby—more than willing to lay fists to the jaws of those who made a rude comment, a pass, whatever he deemed inappropriate. So while she seemed to care very little at being left to wander around the house, Billy cared very much. He lets her pull him closer, his eyebrows lifting as she does so. She's so touchy and he almost hates it. _Almost_.

"Yeah I can see that.” His tone is lightly derisive, as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "So let me guess—now I have to carry you over my shoulder outta here, huh?” He hardly minds leaving with her, even if it will fall into a familiar pattern; she brings out a softer side of him. It almost thrills him it's such a foreign feeling.

When she’s not drunk, when they’re not alone, Baby hates Billy. He’s so sharp—all fists and elbows and teeth. She’s seen him lay another boy flat just for accidentally knocking into her, and she wants to bury her fists into his chest when she remembers the smirk on his face and the blood running from his nose. He’s so goddamned smug and they argue about everything and nothing.

She hates him, she hates him—she doesn’t.

Maybe she just wants to remember the feeling of his hands on her waist, lips on her forehead—maybe she just wants to know what it feels like to kiss a wolf instead of a lamb. With him closer she can run a hand through his hair, and she grins at the feeling of the soft strands between her fingers. “Mmhhmm.” She hums the half-word, still watching him as she tries to slide down from the counter, accomplishing that, only to totter once her feet reach the ground.

"So predictable and so needy, little girl.” Billy bends down at the knees to lift Baby over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He pats the back of her thigh as he walks out of the kitchen and into the chilly night air. Well, it would be chilly if the alcohol wasn't keeping him warm.

Truthfully, if he thought hard enough about it, he was the needy one. He needed her soft and calm presence to act as a balm to his cruel and turbulent soul. He needed her so much more than he would ever care to admit. “You okay up there?" he asks, grin apparent in his voice as he pats the back of her thigh again.

She hates that he calls her predictable, like he doesn’t want to be here with her. And she hates that he calls her needy—she hates more that it’s true.

(What could she ever need a boy like Billy Hargrove for?)

And then he’s picking her up and she giggles, hands playing with the hem of his shirt as he walks, palm pressed flat to the small of his back, the warmth of their skin collectively almost a shock. This is what she needs him for—this boy who could never love her—to protect her. “Faster pony!” She’s laughing as she says it, trying to ignore the goosebumps his hand on her thigh raises. There is so little time for these things—a night once in a while where they can be other people while the rest of the world sleeps.

It doesn’t take long for them to get back to her apartment, and it takes her a minute to get the key in the door, tiny hand swatting his away when he tries to help. She’s just fine on her own, climbing the stairs in front of him, reaching back to brush her fingers against his stomach to make sure he’s still there. Her apartment is a mess of unfinished canvases when she finally reaches the top, chaos in oil paint and a smell that is turpentine and flowers and Baby. The largest thing in the tiny place is a big couch, worn and slightly caving, and she hops up onto it immediately, beckoning him to come lay with her. She’s always too cold without him.

It’s a desperate attempt to ignore the chill up his spine as she presses greedy hands on the skin of his back. It seems like the walk to her place is too short and he hates it, but soon they're inside the controlled chaos of her apartment. Billy shakes his head as she beckons him over, stepping out of his shoes and shrugging off his leather jacket as he flops down next to her on the couch. Part of him hates that this is all the time they have, that it's always been just stolen soft moments.

"Wow you're going to scratch my head? How nice," he teases as he stretches out on the couch, depositing his head in her lap unceremoniously. As if she’d argue, when all her slim fingers want is to bury themselves in his hair, in his skin, in his heart.

He is not built for little bird girls—he is built for blood and raw, bruised skin.

and he’s hiding with her

in these moments

when everything is quiet and calm.

She grins as he puts his head down, doesn’t let him see how eager her fingers are to weave themselves into the soft strands. Her nails, paint still under them, run over his scalp as she cradles his head in her lap. And she sighs, a tiny, tired sound as she leans down, kisses his forehead just to re-memorize the way he smells, the way his skin feels so soft despite the rest of him being so razor sharp.“Tell me a secret Billy.” Baby whispers it as she shifts, scooting down so that she can lay next to him, fingers immediately tangling themselves into the too thin fabric of his shirt.

He tells himself that if she hadn't laid down next to him, if her fingers hadn't been so eager to tangle themselves into his shirt that he would have kept his mouth shut. And maybe he would have, but she can’t keep her hands to herself. Billy tilts his head to the side before he speaks and looks at her, taking in the rosebud lips, the slope of her nose, the unbelievable green of her eyes. "I like you more than I should. I always have.”

She doesn’t believe him, because he is too good with words that don’t mean anything. But her heart is beating so hard in her chest that she knows the words have seeped into her skin, found their way into the little cage that holds her heart too tightly within its bars. And she’s quiet for a long moment, her eyes finally meeting his—like the goddamned sky on a clear day meeting the evergreens in the Adirondacks. “Don’t kiss me if I’m like all the others.” She runs her thumb along the sharp line of his jaw, almost expects to pull it away and see blood, but traces his lower lip instead, her eyes never leaving his.

It's a fair assessment, a fair request. He gives nothing to anyone that would make her assume he could be genuine, that he could mean the oil slick words that come too easily to him.

But he does, he does, he does.

Billy ducks his head slightly to press his lips to the pad of her thumb. “You're not like anyone else.” And he's not sure that he's ever meant anything more. Turning slightly onto his side, his hand comes up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing along her cheek bone for a moment before he leans in to kiss her. He knows that he shouldn't have the opportunity or the right, that she is a fragile thing and he is made from broken glass and shattered bones; but for all of the destruction in his bones, his lips are still gentle against hers.

She soaks in the feeling of his lips against her thumb, thinking that this is the closest they will ever get. No one means anything more to Billy than what they can offer him, and Baby knows she comes with nothing.

little girl

empty hands

doe eyes & glass heart

soft lips & seeking fingers

all she can offer is love.

God and she would love him if she could—if her heart wasn’t half full of everyone she’d ever touched, if she could believe him. And she closes her eyes against the feeling of his thumb running along her cheekbone, can’t look him in the eye when there’s so much unsaid between them. Her chest aches when she feels his lips against hers and she shifts to get closer, to press her lips harder into him if this singular moment is all they have. Her hand slides down his throat, fingers curling into the downy soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Stay like this Billy, just for a little while?” She didn’t know how hard it would be to breathe with her chest pressed to his, the words whispered against his lips, nose brushing his softly. She’s clinging to a boy that exists only in shadows, in corners of her apartment and pages and pages of her sketch book. And she knows he can’t stay, but she’s going to hang on to him anyway.

He nods at her request, not entirely sure how long his body can hold onto this softness, but also unwilling to deny her anything in this moment. She's kissing him harder than he had dared, pulling him closer and he sighs into the kiss. One hand trails down her waist, her thigh, the back of her knee, hooking his fingers to bring her leg up over his hip as he deepens the kiss.

His sigh is so soft, so content that she wishes she could bottle it. And she wishes too that she could record the taste of him, the feeling of his fingertips behind her knee. Will she forget these things the next time she sees him in the light of day, blood on his teeth from another girl? She doesn’t know how to get closer, her dress having slid up, her hand up under his shirt, nails pressing crescent moons between his ribs. Her teeth sink into his lower lip and she stops for a minute, trying to catch her breath and failing. “Tell me another secret.” She asks it to distract him from how much she wants him, from how desperately her hands dig into his skin.

“I don't have anymore secrets.” He presses the words into her collarbone as his hands slide farther up her thigh, slipping around to grip the flesh of her ass as he pulls her closer. "Why don't you tell me a secret," he prompts.

_“Oh—“_  
  
She breathes the little word out as he grabs her, pulls her closer and she winds her arm around his neck a little tighter. He’s lying—this is a boy made of secrets, built and bred on them. But the girl won’t press. They love her because she knows when to be quiet. “You’re my favorite, out of all of them. And I hate you for that.” She wants to keep hating him.

She does, she does—she can’t.

All of the kids are for their own reasons, but she knows those reasons, knows why they cling to each other and to her. But Billy is a black hole—she can’t read him and she never will. So she kisses his chin, brushes her lips against his before she actually kisses him.

“There are better reasons to hate me.” He says it as his lips travel along her jaw, nipping at her earlobe, peppering her throat until he reaches the collar of her dress. He wants to tug the dress off, to press his lips to every inch of skin he can find, but that's a line he won't cross unless she pulls him over it.

All she can do is breathe him in, the air getting caught in her throat as he kisses her. And she can feel the question in his touch, his breathing slowing down, his breath warm on her chest. She is so fucking weak for him that he could ask her anything and she would say yes, so long as he said ‘please’. And she never imagined herself as a lamb sacrificing itself to the wolf, but here she is with his teeth in her neck. She draws her head back so she can look into his eyes again, teeth sinking into her lower lip, long lashes hiding her eyes. She’s looking for the lie in him—in his touch, in those glassy eyes—but she can’t find it. “Don’t hurt me.” Her voice is so small as she kisses him again, begging for a thing she knows nothing about from a boy who knows too much.

He can’t promise that he won’t hurt her, no one can, but god he wants it to be true as he nods, as his thumb brushes her lower lip. “I won't hurt you." And he means it; means it with everything he has. Then she's kissing him and he feels like his chest is going to cave in with how much he wants her, how this moment has been so long coming, despite how hard he’s been running from it. “What do you want?" Billy needs some direction before he does the wrong thing, before he does hurt her.

Without question she believes him, her eyes closed against the feeling of his thumb on her lips. Maybe she has always known that this would happen—has been fighting the inevitable for the last three years, hoping for a different outcome. They’ve said her first time should be with someone she loves; someone who loves her. But she doesn’t love him; loves him with a part of her that no one will ever have. And she loves a part of him that does not exist for anyone but her.

Baby doesn’t know what she needs, she only knows that she wants all of him. So she coaxes his shirt over his head, watches as her own fingers run over skin she has only felt in passing. And then she is unbuttoning his jeans, her fingers shaking slightly with anticipation and nervous energy.

He is rapt, watching her fingers explore his skin, watching the light shake as she pulls at his jeans. And he pulls her hand away to still it, bringing it to his lips, kissing the tip of each finger, her palm. Jeans pushed off, he can turn his attention to her dress, working it over her head, his breath catching in his throat when he finally sees her.

She watches him, lips parted and bated breath as he presses his lips to fingers that have only touched dry oil paint so softly. And he is touching parts of her that Baby didn’t know existed, so fucking careful it hurts; her palm sliding over the crest of his cheekbone, across his forehead, through his hair and never losing the spark his lips place there.

“Baby," he says her name softly, reverently. Then he shifts over her, his hands running along her waist, her hips, looping through the waist of her underwear as he settles on top of her, kissing her deeply. His tongue slips into her mouth, memorizing her taste before he kisses her throat, her chest, her stomach, his fingers tugging at the thin piece of fabric, sitting up as he pulls it off, discarding it before catching one of her legs in his hand. Billy presses a kiss to her ankle, along her calf, teasing the back of her knee sweetly with his tongue.

She feels cold despite the heat of her own skin, a new blush in her cheeks when he says her name like that. She doesn’t know who that Baby is, but she wants to. The weight of him as he settles on top of her is crushing, but only right where their hearts meet—she can feel the steady beat of his against hers, erratic and unsure. And she doesn’t ever want him to stop kissing her. There is a little smile on her face, eyes lazy as he kisses her ankle, a giggle escaping her as his lips touch behind her knee. Where has this boy been hiding? She sits up halfway to meet his kiss, her palm flat against his chest, and her thumb drawing a line across brows that she’s drawn so many times, always so angry, but now there is no hint of that. “Billy I—“ She bites her lip to stop herself from saying something stupid, lets him kiss her again before she ruins the moment.

"What?" he asks, pressing hips lips to the hollow behind her ear. He doesn't want her to feel as if she can't say something, as if she's going to embarrass herself or ruin something. His hand slips between them, between her thighs, calloused fingers exploring her folds slowly, but demanding, as he tries to rein in his own racing heart, fighting to bite back the groan in his chest as how she feels against his fingers.

“Nothing.” It is something for another time, when she can tease out the meaning of the words; not now when everything is so goddamned hazy and warm and all she can think about is him. She breathes the word out, but she’s already shaking, the air coming in short, trembling gasps as she presses her lips to his shoulder. She has never felt this kind of ache—it’s always been a hollow, unreciprocated thing in the cavity of her chest, but now—now it’s something else entirely. And she can’t help the whine that gets caught in the back of her throat, his rough hands on her and her lips soft on the smooth skin of his chest, until she can’t help but arch her back, hair in her face as she lays back.

Billy follows her as she lays back, kissing her deeply as he presses two fingers inside of her warm wetness, moaning against her lips at how tight she feels around them, mind racing to fill in the blanks, to assume what it will feel like when he is finally, finally inside of her. He moves his hand, a slow push and pull of the wrist, steadily picking up pace as his lips drop to her chest, to the perfect swell of her breast, nipping and licking the small hurts. She’s leaking around him after only a few minutes, her walls flexing around his fingers as he picks up the pace.

If she had known it could be like this, maybe she wouldn’t have held him at arms length for so long. But she cannot help wondering if every girl has felt the same under his gentle attentions. Have his cheeks been equally as rosy for Heather and Nancy, for the countless others whose names she does not know? And will he return to them once he realizes she is too breakable, her hands too soft around his neck? A wealth of emotions, but never the anger, never the violence he’s looking for. Her hips stutter at the sound of his moans, at the tenderness of his kisses and she runs a hand through his hair, cradling his head in her hands until he looks at her again. And she looks at him for a long moment, considering those pouting lips and drowsy eyes, even as he continues, even as the heat rises in her skin and her cunt clenches wonderfully. “What do you need?” She hears her own voice, small and tight with want—she’d give him anything.

His smile is pressed into the skin of her abdomen as he looks up at her, shaking his head a little, pausing all movement. “Just you Baby Lynn.” It's a simple enough sentiment with a truth that makes his chest ache. He doesn't want to think past what all of this will mean, all of the ways he could manage to ruin this fragile thing between them. He continues a slow descent until his head is between her thighs, his hands draping her legs over his shoulders. Billy makes absolutely no attempt to hide the moan pressed into her skin as his tongue presses against her clit, his fingers continuing their steady rhythm. He wants her shaking apart, begging, crying out before he worries about himself.

She breathes out a laugh at him, because it’s laughable, how fucking sweet he’s being when he is full of an ache long ago born of fists on young flesh. And she knows this secret can ruin them, but she’ll hold it close anyway because this boy is a gift. The others will never know him, or the way he coaxes an unrepentant moan from her lips when he presses down on her tender bud. That familiar shiver runs up her spine and settles in her stomach and he has her squirming, breathless and begging for more. Her nails dig into his shoulder, bracing herself back as she arches up to meet him. “Fuck, Billy—“ Baby doesn’t even know what she intends to say, but it’s lost in an overwhelmingly static feeling of pleasure, her eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly as she presses herself hard against him.

His jaw works harder, his hand moves faster, as she writhes underneath him, as she begs for more. Each new noise he pulls from her leaves him pressing into the couch, desperately hard and craving any sort of friction he can get. Billy is breathing hard through his nose as she presses against his mouth, his fingers, his free hand pressing against her abdomen to hold her still, keep her in place for a few more passes of his tongue before he's pulling away from her, so he can watch her fall apart. His chest is heaving, eyes blown wide as he looks down at her. Leaning down he kisses her roughly, one hand bruisingly tight on her hip, the other hooking her leg over his hip as he had done earlier. Lining himself up against her entrance, Billy is fucking desperate to feel her around him, but he pauses, his nose brushing against hers."Is this okay?”

She had thought that palm reading was magic the first time her mother had shown her, and she still feels a little bit of that every time she brushes her fingers down someone’s hand. But the boy has a magic all his own, and she can’t even stutter out the words for it. He has always been a magnet for Baby—hands in his shirt, fingers in her hair, but she never thought they would fit together like this. And she’s never seen his eyes so wide, like she’s something; a piece of artwork from a renaissance master, gilded and shining. Her skin is already too hot, slick with sweat and saliva and she kisses him back, pulling his hair as she wraps a leg tightly around him. Her nod is tentative when he asks, like she isn’t sure, but Baby is as sure as she’ll ever fucking be, already pressing into him, her eyes shut tightly against the shock of it. And part of her wants to cry because it hurts more than she’d anticipated—he’s so goddamned big—but his hands and lips on her feel so good that all she can do is sigh against him.

Billy kisses her as he presses inside of her, the action becoming less of a kiss and more of a consumption of sound as he moans at the sensation of her stretching around him. His mind couldn’t even touch what the real thing feels like, burying his face against her neck as his hips start to move, his hand reaching down to guide her other leg up as he picks up his pace. Fuck, Baby I—“ His words are swallowed by another moan, his hips changing pace, going slower, pressing deeper.

She can’t breathe. All she can feel is him moving inside of her, against her, the aching stretch, her walls fluttering around him, his lips on her neck, his breathe hot on her chest. She thinks she can’t breathe but her face is pressed into his hair, his scent of citrus and sweat, menthol and nicotine, her spine curled as her legs wrap tighter around him. And she isn’t sure anymore if it hurts or if it is the best thing she’s ever felt; a gasp or sigh escaping her as he presses deeper. “I know.” The words are so tight in her throat that she almost sounds like she’s crying, eyes glassy as she pulls his face up so that she can kiss him, her hips angling up to get closer, drawing her thumb down swollen lips. And she does know—she knows, she knows, she knows.

His hands both rest on her hips, holding the angle she’s created as he drives into her, the sensation taking his breath away, leaving him gasping against her lips. And he can't help but think of the other girls, bodies that came and went, that meant nothing; and he's thinking about how this means everything. Letting go of her hip with one hand he slips it between them to touch her again, to press tight and fast circles against her, because it is not enough to be this close, he wants to hear her gasping.

She’s already told herself that she won’t think of them—the others; girls that she’s seen Billy with his hands all over. She can feel his nails writing his name on her hipbone and she wants to be the only person with that pressed into her skin. He can claim her, if he wants. He already has. She sucks in a sharp breath when he touches her again, one hand gripping his strong shoulder, the other holding herself up and into his touch. Trying to forget the pressure in her spine is impossible, every breath a pleading whine not to stop. And she’s kissing him when it happens again, that wave cresting and leaving her shaking around him, legs so tight she doesn’t know how they’re not one person.

He's gasping as her body spasms around him, the pleasure building at the base of his spine turning hard and fast as he loses all sense of rhythm, his body driving into hers to find his own end. And it happens suddenly, a moan tearing from his throat as that white hot wave of release washes over him, his hips managing a few more perfunctory presses of their own accord before he's collapsing against her. His lips press soft kisses against the skin of her chest, her throat, her lips as his fingers run through her hair lazily.

He is glorious, moaning into her mouth; a ruined god against the plains of her chest. She wants to see him like this every night, every morning. She wants to keep him close, though she knows the distance will stretch between them again soon enough. Gods and mortals were never meant to be happy together—she is full of stars and he is a battle scarred thing. She draws constellations on his shoulder, connects the tiny white shards of memories on his skin as she presses kisses into his hair, his cheek, his ear. “Billy, Billy, Billy.” She whispers his name like a prayer, like she can bring him back to himself if she says it enough times.

In this moment he wishes he was the kind of boy who fell in love easily, with abandon, who said it just as quickly. Nothing of note is easy when it comes to Billy. To admit that he liked her more than he should was a stunning revelation, to say what he really meant, that he loved her, that her hands against his skin was the only kind of peace he knew was unthinkable—but in this moment he wished it wasn't, knows that's what she deserves to have pressed into her skin. His head is rested on her chest, his arms wrapped snugly around her waist as his eyes close, as his heart rate slows. "This means something," and it's the most honest thing he can say to her, to reassure her that she is not like the others, that this is different; that for once he was sleeping with someone he cared about and that it was worlds away from his norm.

He’s always put an ache in her chest—with his terrible beauty, with his hands soft and searching when no one was looking. But it’s always been a hollow sort of ache, something wilted and unsustainable. Before this moment Billy has only ever been a boy Baby will never love properly. But his words have something blooming inside the cavity of her chest now, and it is so alive that the ache is both terrible and beautiful at once. “I thought you didn’t have any secrets left.” She breathes out a laugh, settling further into the couch and his embrace. Little fingers run through his hair, fingertips drawing over his shoulders and back, feather soft caresses because she knows her own skin is still sensitive and tingling.

Billy lifts his head to look at her, pressing a gentle kiss to her jawline, her cheek, as his fingers press into her back. “Who said that was a secret?” Wasn’t it though? Was he not only soft in these stolen moments with her? The edges only softened when her small hands were pressing carelessly into his skin, utterly unaware of the effect she was having on him. Still, she had to know, didn’t she? She had to know that she meant more to him than anyone else. It was unfair, he knew, to ask her to divine the meaning behind how he melted into her caress, but still he was asking.

But it is a secret, because she doesn’t know this boy outside of these four walls. Only Baby and her paintings know him—he lives in oil and graphite, drawn over and over, smudged into her fingerprints. She brushes her nose against his cheek, lips following, eventually finding his. Could she tell him she loved him by touch alone? Could she tell him she would always know him, even when he was bloodied and bruised, vicious and angry? “To everyone else maybe.” He has told her more in two statements over the last two hours than he has in the last three years of their friendship. Tracing the solid line of his brow, Baby smiles softly.”You don’t have to be so goddamned strong all the time, you know that right?”

“I’m not strong.” It’s the opposite of how he wants to be seen, by Baby, by the world, but it’s the only truth he really knows. Despite the broken fingers, noses, ribs, despite the hurt he has enacted upon others he still feels as if he has not progressed past that boy cowering in the corner as his father raged. He has felt as if he was burning hot as forge, but all that had created was a broken boy who never learned how to be vulnerable. With her he can see that compassion was not weakness, that love did not break the spirit. Who did he hate more—his father or himself. He feels a little too vulnerable, a little too laid bare, so he shifts down, lips busying themselves on the inside of her thigh, tongue and teeth and lips sucking a bruise against the soft pale skin, his eyes rolling up to watch her as he does so. “So you can’t forget for a least a week,” his voice is teasing, giving her a final nip before sitting up, running a hand through his hair.

She can only shake her head when he says he’s not strong. Baby will never be able to look at him again without feeling his lips on hers, her cheeks reddening with guilt or shame or something else. And she will gladly spend the rest of her life stitching up the loose threads of his soul if he will only let her. Weak or strong, she doesn’t care. She wants him—that vulnerable little boy hidden away and the broken man in front of her. Baby wants to tell him that, but he’s already pulled away, already folded back into his armor. She squirms again under his touch, that whine at the back of her throat, the skin between his lips and teeth his alone. Will anyone ever again touch these places on her skin, in her heart? If he leaves will she recover the pieces of herself that he already has? “As if I could forget.” She runs her fingers down his chest, his stomach, his hip, grinning slightly. Then following suit Baby sits up, shifting so that she can stand, stretching like a cat before she walks into the bedroom for a shirt and underwear.

“Are you going?” She lets her shoulder rest against the doorframe, her voice tentative as she asks the question. She doesn’t expect him to stay, not really, not when she knows who he is and where he’s been.

His eyes are shameless as they trail her to her room, chest aching as he watches her. It’s unfair, how beautiful she is, how soft. He almost wants to stop her, to pull her back to the couch, but he doesn’t. Instead he starts pulling on his jeans, leaving his shirt somewhere on the floor as he stands and stretches. And he turns around at her question, moving towards her before he answers, a hand on her hip to tug her forward as he kisses her cheek. “Do you want me to?”

**Author's Note:**

> [PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7BdmixyCeC5UG17qLj66Vf?si=fjCrJYbDS0KpxZ4H4nUx9Q)


End file.
